I miss summer. It was just a few weeks ago when the light lingered and the days were dry, and upon stepping outside everything still felt possible. Of course, I love the rain too and have been dazzled—yes, dazzled—by the fall colors. This year has been particularly striking in the northwest. Right now I’m looking at a bush with iridescent pink leaves, surrounded by the ubiquitous green of everything else. Not so bad. But when it comes down to it, summer is my season.

I know I couldn’t love it as much if it weren’t for the rest of the year’s variety, but the season’s warmth and lushness, the way it moves about lingering—all that stuff clicks with my spirit.

Last night I roasted some green tomatoes from our garden. I picked them knowing they weren’t going to ripen, and while they were delicious, it was a sad polarity from the early summer’s green tomatoes, when eagerness and impatience caused me to grab a few fruits from the vine.

Good things? It’s soup season and the writing shack is almost done (pictures coming soon). The never-ending chicken coop just needs a roof and I’m about to get that sucker on there so we can have some hens and their inevitably delicious eggs. River. Coffee’s always good. And knowing that summer is only, like, seven months away.